


Reacquainted

by Idioteque



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, M/M, references to masturbation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:15:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idioteque/pseuds/Idioteque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I received a prompt over on Tumblr and this is the result!</p><p>Prompt: Jim makes himself at home in Sherlock's flat, Sherlock is too flustered (and secretly happy) to throw him out.</p><p>Jim's been away for a while and upon his return he and Sherlock take a little bit of time to get reacquainted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coming Home

“I’ve been… commissioned.” Jim had muttered against Sherlock’s neck in the warm darkness of his bedroom nearly a month ago. Commissioned. Not hired, recruited, contracted. Commissioned. Like an artist. Jim is an artist of course – a genius, a creator of the highest order. A master.

“Commissioned? You have to go somewhere? Is that something you do often?” Sherlock had replied, trying to keep his voice detached from his spiking curiosity.

“Mm-hmm.” Jim nodded against his skin. There was a moment of silence whilst they both thought. “And no, it’s not something that I am wont to do. But it’s a safe job. Paperwork. My presence is merely to inspire the confidence of a client.”

“Where?”

“Far. But it’s safe.”

“Where?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

“Is that due to some chivalrous notion of protecting me?”

“How very fairy-tale. Am I your knight in shining armour, Sherlock?” He’d grinned warmly up at him. Sherlock pressed their noses together for a second and Jim’s face returned to Sherlock’s neck. “If that’s how you want to think of it, then yes. It’s safer for everyone if the only person who knows exactly what’s happening is me.”

“I see.” Sherlock was irritated by Jim’s reticence, but understood the reasoning behind it. He’d be able to work everything out when Jim got back anyway.

“How long?”

“A fortnight should be adequate. It’s a big job, but once it’s over I will have more free time to be here.”

'Here?’ Where exactly? In the UK? London? This flat? Here with me?

“Will you – “

Jim had guessed what he was going to say. The face pressed tenderly against Sherlock’s neck shook again. “No. No contact. I’m going to leave my phone here. I’ve done this many times before, there’s no need for concern. I have routines and practices that I stick to, that I know work. Tracks must be kept covered. No contact. I’ll let you know when I’m back.”

“Will you come back here?” The flat wasn’t ‘home’, it was just one of Jim’s properties. There was a house somewhere in the South where he would often go after a job for a few days. He would return calmer and well rested. Sherlock never asked about it. It seemed to be something that was to remain outside of the delicate sphere of their current relationship.

“Yes. I’ll come back here.” The head rose from his shoulder and the weight of Jim’s body lying against his chest lifted slightly. An arm slid across chest to allow Jim to prop himself up to look at him. The faint light coming from the dark window reflected in the glassy surface of Jim’s eyes. “Will… will you be here? In a fortnight?” His tone was quiet and hopeful. Jim had stopped attempting to hide his delight at seeing Sherlock on a regular basis. He now allowed a wide smile to break over his face when he came through the front door to see Sherlock’s coat and shoes sitting in the hall. He greeted him affectionately, no longer hesitating now that he knew that Sherlock wasn’t averse to physical contact between the two of them. He possessed the knowledge that he’d sought for so long - he knew that Sherlock wanted it too.

“Yes. I’ll be here.”

***

19 days of silence. Not the silence that he relished; the warm blanket of silence that fell when communication and expression no longer had to be constrained by the inadequacy of language. Not the silence of a thousand thoughts and ideas spinning and crashing through a mind, too fast to be constructed into speech. But the silence he hated. The silence of nothingness, of the void that he teetered perpetually upon the edge of. Purgatory. Boredom. Jim had been silent for 19 days. Not just silent, but absent. With the most minimal of warnings, he’d vanished into thin air. After the past few weeks of almost constant companionship fitted around whatever work Sherlock was doing, Sherlock had almost forgotten that Jim had a job too.

Sherlock had been there. Exactly 14 days after Jim had left. 14 days since the last time he’d muttered ‘good morning’, his voice hoarse with sleep, against Jim’s ear before he left in the early morning light. 14 days since he’d last flopped into the comfort of the worn leather armchair on the right-hand side of the sitting room fireplace. 14 days since he’d slept somewhat peacefully, next to someone who’d listen patiently to his rapid-fire babbling when he awoke them at 3am suddenly struck by a breakthrough. Someone who’d listen, who’d point out further evidence, who’d praise him, who’d wait until he’d finished before curling their fingers back together, telling him to go back to sleep and that they’d talk more in the morning. He went to Jim’s flat (Jim had left a key in his coat pocket after his very first visit) and waited.

Jim didn’t arrive after 14 days. Or 15 days. By day 16, Sherlock’s temper was swelling dangerously. He was angry. Angry that Jim hadn’t told him where he was going and angry that he hadn’t been able to deduce anything from the small amount of luggage he’d seen folded neatly into a small leather travelling bag that had been sitting on Jim’s bedroom desk on that last night. Jim was highly skilled in many areas, but his ability to hide – even in plain sight and even, to Sherlock’s immense irritation, in front of him– was unrivalled. The frequent reminders of his lack of knowledge, his helplessness were things to go wrong, scraped torturously down his spine like icy claws. Rationally, he knew that Jim was clever enough to get out of nearly any situation imaginable and that he had a vast worldwide network of lackeys at his fingertips. That, however, did nothing to abate his growing malcontent over Jim’s silence. He lashed out at everyone, his razor sharp tongue slicing through whomever dared to cross his path – or even made eye contact with him, as the poor girl on the checkout in the supermarket on day 12 had found out to her cost. John had left to go and stay with his sister a few days before, telling Sherlock to let him know when he’d recovered from his ‘bizarre, pseudo-adolescent crisis’.

It was 3am on the morning of day 17 and Sherlock was prowling through the streets of central London, following a route that he knew would lead him back to the dens of his old vices. He stood in the shadows, still as stone, the numerous different paths he was standing upon the edge of flashed through his mind like white lightening across a midnight sky. He imagined what Jim would say. Jim wasn’t here. Who knows where he was, he could be lying dead somewhere, alone, cold and invisible, and Sherlock would never know. He pulled his collar up close around his face and started walking.

***

He’d been in the lab for 27 hours now, a vast landscape of tubes, bottles, liquids and vapours covering the tables all around him, peering into a microscope with unfocused eyes. Nobody came into the room, nobody asked him to leave, John wasn’t there to cajole him into going home and getting some sleep, and so he stayed. He stayed until his fingers cramped painfully from twisting the focusing knobs, until the desperate dry thirst in his throat became too uncomfortable to ignore and his back ached and head throbbed. He pushed his arms heavily into his coat, ducking his head and pulling the thick material around him as he shuffled slowly from the hospital, hailing a cab and flopping despondently into the back seat, grunting his address to the driver.

He stomped laboriously up the stairs to 221b, dropping his keys twice before he focused on the task enough to open the door. He walked straight to the kitchen sink, taking a slightly stained glass that was sitting on the draining board and filling it to the brim with lukewarm water. He gulped down three glasses and filled it a fourth time. He held it up in front of his eyes, staring at the tiny particles floating and crashing together in the clear liquid before tipping it slowly back into the sink from head height, watching splashes decorate the wall and nearby surfaces. He placed the glass back on the draining board and spent 6 minutes staring blankly into the fridge. Empty. No food, no experiments, no ideas, no answers.

He turned back and walked into the living room. There was a small dark brown leather travelling bag sitting on the floor beside his armchair. A thick brown tweed coat was placed neatly over the desk, which was littered with piles of paper, books and the various odds and ends that would hold Sherlock’s attention for all of 3 minutes before they joined the graveyard of ‘things’ that cluttered the small flat.He stared at the bag for a moment. It was the one that he’d stared at nearly three weeks earlier in the dusty early morning light of Jim’s bedroom. Sherlock frowned. Of course Jim would come here. Of course he’d risk his invisibility and come straight to Baker Street to see Sherlock. Although he knew that if Jim were being tailed then Sherlock’s home would be the last place he’d lead them. Mycroft would soon know that he was back, of course, leaving them precious little time to get reacquainted in true secrecy. Sherlock sighed. He walked to the bag, crouched down and unzipped it.

The smell of Jim’s cologne hit his nostrils immediately, the scent rich, spicy and tantalising. He pulled a few items out of the bag – expensive work shirts, a pair of patent black leather dress shoes, a small silver tin containing expensive cufflinks and tiepins. Jim hadn’t lied about it being business, then. Sherlock suddenly couldn’t remember why he ever thought that he would lie. He placed the items back in the bag, the smell of Jim’s cologne was making his mind spin and his desire to see him and be physically close to him was becoming overwhelming. It was a curious sensation, such a basic human hunger; that need to feel the warmth of someone’s skin next to yours. Despite his growing acceptance of his feelings towards Jim, Sherlock was still not quiet used to being so easily piloted by those particular yearnings, and again tried to push them back to focus on his task. The coat would offer answers.

He walked to the desk quickly, slipping his hands into the silk lined coat, his fingers retrieving a handful of coins from the left hand pocket. He recognised the engravings upon the surface of the money immediately and smiled. Easy. He felt an immeasurable sense of quiet now that he knew where Jim had been. He wanted to look through Jim’s wallet, but knew that Jim would allow him to do that anyway, and so decided to postpone that task until morning.

He paused at the closed door to his bedroom, listening to the silence for a moment, before walking back through the kitchen and turning into the bathroom. Jim’s electric toothbrush sat upon the edge of the sink next to a smart blue toiletry bag. The towel that Sherlock had left folded neatly upon the towel rail that morning hung at an odd angle, the corner damp to the touch. Sherlock brushed his teeth and splashed some cold water on his face. He walked back through the living room and opened the door to his bedroom.

Sherlock flicked the light on and the room lit up with dull a yellow glow. Jim was lying in the bed on his side, his head resting on his outstretched arm, his other hand picking absently at the cotton sheet. He looked tired; deep purple shadows were painted under his eyes, which stared ahead blankly. He looked at least 7lbs lighter than he had been when he left, his jawline was more sharply defined and the muscles in the arm that was picking at the sheet looked almost sinewy. Jim turned his head slightly as Sherlock walked into the room and clicked the door shut behind him. Jim didn’t say anything, but his dark eyes followed Sherlock with an intensity that he found almost physically uncomfortable. Sherlock undressed, feeling Jim’s eyes upon him the entire time. He moved slowly, placing each article of clothing over the back of a chair as he removed them.

Sherlock wondered whether he was teasing him. He knew that Jim wanted him like this – bare and vulnerable and his only. Jim wanted to see him, all of him. Perhaps waving what Jim wanted in front of his eyes was just a tiny act of payback for Jim’s absence. Or perhaps, considered Sherlock, things like this, feeling completely at ease and comfortable with someone, was what he had begun to miss the most.

Naked, he walked to the side of the bed nearest the door, retrieved hispyjama bottoms and t-shirt, and pulled them on with slightly numb fingers. His eyes finally met Jim’s as he climbed under the covers.

A jolt of electricity shot through him as their eyes finally met and it seemed to elicit the same reaction from Jim, who scrambled desperately from his foetal position, kicking the covers away and launched himself at Sherlock. It all happened so fast that Sherlock didn’t really have time to brace himself for the full weight of a 5’8” man, and he collapsed back against the bed, adrenaline from the shock coursing through him. Jim clambered over him, a leg on either side of Sherlock’s hips, sliding one arm under Sherlock’s back underneath his shoulder, and the other moved to cup Sherlock’s face as he pressed his own face against Sherlock’s neck, rocking slightly, his breathing heavy. After a few minutes, Jim stilled a little, his breathing calmer. He sat up slightly and moved so that his arms were either side of Sherlock’s head, propping himself up inches from his face. They stared at each other for a few seconds, before Jim leant forward and placed an open mouthed kiss upon Sherlock’s lips. Despite his anger, his irritation and his exhaustion, Sherlock responded eagerly, sliding his hands up under Jim’s long-sleeved cotton top, tracing the warm expanse of skin and the ridges of his spine as he kissed him.

They kissed for what felt like hours, pausing to press their foreheads together and catch their breath, taking it in turns to decorate each other’s faces and necks with soft kisses and caresses. Finally, Jim pulled back, paused for a moment to look at him, then slid off Sherlock’s lap, lying on his side beside him, hooking his leg over Sherlock’s and keeping an arm locked over his chest. Sherlock was slightly nonplussed by Jim’s extraordinary greeting. Jim was growing more confident in his affections, but they had never done anything as ordinary as greet each other like long lost lovers.

Sherlock turned his head to look at Jim. He reflected that they’d never done anything as physical as what had just happened before either, and the effects that it had had upon Jim were unmistakable – his pupils were blown wide, a pink blush tinted his cheeks and neck, his lips were swollen and wet and his pyjama bottoms were tented tight over his crotch. Sherlock wondered whether he looked to be in a similar state, and whether Jim delighted in seeing his blood race under the surface of his skin and his eyes widen as much as he was beginning to relish seeing it in him. He could feel his pulse racing wildly and the rocking movement of Jim’s embrace had certainly begun to stir up interesting sensations that Sherlock was disappointed not to be pursuing further. The unspoken words and feelings behind Jim’s actions were almost painfully intimate, Sherlock could feel them buzzing around him and could see them dancing in Jim’s slightly glassy eyes. Sherlock cleared his throat and the silence was finally broken. 

“You’re late.”

“I know. Things… people got in the way. My schedule was delayed and I couldn’t come back when i’d promised to. I’m sorry. I wanted to come back. You have no idea how much I wanted to come back.” Jim’s speech was rapid, and rung with feeling. The hand at the end of the arm lying over his chest squeezed his waist lightly, as if just to confirm that he was indeed there.

Sherlock didn’t want to press the matter too much tonight, Jim looked almost ill with exhaustion, despite the rosy tint of arousal that kissed his skin. Jim would tell him everything he wanted to know in good time. He leant forward and pressed another kiss, albeit a slightly more chaste one this time, to Jim’s plump lips. “I’m very pleased to see you again.”

Jim gazed back at him, the tension and stress leaving his body with every passing minute was almost tangible. “I forgot how beautiful you are. Well, not forgot, it’s not really something that’s ever far from my mind, but I forgot quite how exquisite you are. Especially when you’re so close to me.” Jim whispered, his eyes wide and sincere.

The embarrassed smile that threatens to crack one’s polite reserve upon receiving an unexpected compliment pulled at Sherlock’s lips.

“I don’t think you’re really aware of it. But I am. Of course I know how I see you, but I know the effect that you have on others, too. I see people’s eyes wander and blushes tint their cheeks when you look at them. Especially poor Molly. I wonder what she’d say if she could see you now… with your hair all mussed and your eyes so eager. Your pulse racing, and…” Jim’s voice trailed off into a mere rumble, his hand slowly stroking Sherlock’s lower stomach, making Sherlock twitch with anticipation at every soft caress against his sensitive skin. Jim chuckled. “Oh Sherlock” He drawled. “I’m flattered. And I know you can see that I’m returning the compliment. What are we going to do about it?”

“We’re going to go to sleep. You look like death. We can address the problem tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning? That’s ambitious. Is that another of your extraordinary abilities that I am yet to discover?” Jim snorted, his speech slurred and his eyes drooping with each blink.

Sherlock smiled and said nothing. Jim would be asleep in seconds and then he could slip off to the bathroom. It wasn’t something he normally found himself inclined to do through anything other than necessity. The combined elements of the shocking excitement of finding Jim in his flat and the altogether unexpected crash of emotions that he had been experiencing over the past few weeks which were coming to a head now that Jim was lying sprawled across his chest were drawing strong reactions from him, not helped by the ever lingering smell of Jim’s spicy scent which Sherlock had unconsciously begun to associate with so many new thoughts and sensations, particularly in connection to the more physical aspects of the time he and Jim spent together. It was definitely becoming necessary.

He lay still for a few moments longer, doing complicated multiplications in his head in a bid to bore himself and bide the time until Jim had fallen into a deep enough sleep to allow him to move without waking him and risking his dignity. Jim heaved a long, slow sigh, and Sherlock decided that it was time to move; his body was not cooperating and he could still feel his blood pumping rapidly, his groin uncomfortably hot and tight. He felt restless, awake and jittery.

He slowly slid his legs away from where they were tangled with Jim’s, moving an inch and then stopping for a second to gauge whether Jim was reacting. Jim’s sleeping face remained blank and restful. With his legs free, Sherlock gently picked up the arm that was lying heavily across his chest and manoeuvred himself out from underneath, placing it gently back on the warm mattress. He immediately slid one hand down under his pyjama bottoms to provide himself with a minimal moment of relief, before turning to tip toe out of the bedroom door to go to the bathroom.

“Enjoy yourself, Sherlock. I hope you’ll be thinking of me.” Came Jim’s deep sleepy voice, tinted with amusement, from the darkness of the bed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and left the room. He was fairly certain that Jim was never going to let him forget this.

***

Sherlock awoke late the next morning, rested and comfortable. He could feel the sun slanting in through the window, warming his back. He could feel Jim lying next to him, his consciousness so alive and magnetic that Sherlock knew he was awake without having to look at him. Jim had obviously noticed that Sherlock’s breathing patterns had changed. A warm, soft fingertip began to trail gently over his face, tracing his nose, his brows, his cheekbones and finally followed the outline of his lips, rubbing back and forth against them before the finger gently hooked over his lower lip, sliding into the sleepy warmth of Sherlock’s mouth and slipping between his teeth.

Sherlock pondered upon the sensation for a while before he opened his eyes. He moved his mouth free of Jim’s finger, his eyebrows raised slightly but he couldn’t help but smile. “Good morning to you, too. What was that all about?”

“Oh, I was just thinking.” Jim said, pulling his hand back to rest on the space on the mattress between them, his eyes gleaming with various things that Sherlock was not quite familiar with.

“…About?” Sherlock prompted. 

Jim stared at him for a few seconds before exploding into laughter. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock, do you need me to write you a fucking poem or something?”

Realisation dawned and Sherlock was genuinely concerned that he might blush.

“That might be useful, actually. I don’t feel that possess quite the same level of perception when it comes to… that… sort of thing as you do.”

“You were ‘perceptive’ enough to have to go and relieve your ‘tension’ in the bathroom last night after I kissed you. Don’t try and pull the wool over my eyes, Sherlock. Everyone else might thing that you’re indifferent when it comes to sex but I know that that’s not true. I could feel you, hard against me. I know exactly what you want.” Jim teased, drawing out the last words in the low growl that he knew made goose bumps dance across the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“Well I can only envisage it being an embarrassing scenario for the both of us. The poetry, that is.” Sherlock responded brusquely, as he tried to move his mind away from the sensation of Jim’s finger resting upon the hot, wet heat of his tongue.

Jim shrugged. “Not that embarrassing. For me, at least. I’ve written you hundreds of poems.”

“What!?” Sherlock said, propping himself up on his elbow, looking incredulous. Visions of Jim sitting on his bed, hair mussed and shirt unbuttoned, frantically scrawling poetry onto scrolls of parchment flooded his mind.

Jim rolled his eyes and his eyes rested upon Sherlock’s lips for a few moments before he sighed with a kind of resigned ennui. “Everything I’ve ever done… ever thought of, ever planned, ever created – has been for you. Tailored perfectly to your interests, to things that I know make your pupils dilate, and your fingers twitch and your heart race.” His voice was deep and slightly breathless. “Those are my poems that I wrote for you, Sherlock.”

Jim sniffed and smiled a forced smile at him, before his glistening eyes moved to stare determinedly at a dark smudge on the ceiling. He chewed on his lips for a moment, blinking hard. Sherlock reached out and stroked a curled lock of dark hair off Jim’s forehead. He traced gently over one of Jim’s impossibly delicate eyebrows and then over Jim’s long eyelashes, feeling wetness on the pad of his thumb.

They lay in silence for a long while, whilst Sherlock decided what he wanted to say.

“It took me a while to figure out that there was one person behind all of those events. I didn’t even occur to me initially that it could be one person – it defies reason, imagination – that one person could be brilliant enough to create and orchestrate such a beautifully intricate web. There aren’t humans like that. I’d never met one before. I’d given thought to the idea that I couldn’t be the only one with such a highly evolved intellect, but it seemed statistically impossible that the one other person who’s reality functioned upon the same stratum was so near. That they – you - had always been so near. Because I suppose you have always been close to me, although I was too self-absorbed to search for such a connection.” Jim had turned his head from his point of interest on the ceiling and was watching Sherlock with obvious tenderness. He smiled in agreement at Sherlock’s words.

“I dismissed the very idea of it almost as soon as I became aware that that was what humans do – they crave another being to walk beside them, or they’re taught that that’s what they should crave and nobody ever thinks to question that it’s an utterly bizarre and nonsensical thing to base your entire existence around!”

Jim, who was watching Sherlock’s thoughts unfurl with wide eyes, gave a solemn nod at this. Perhaps it was due to his agreement with Sherlock’s statement as a whole. Or perhaps he was acknowledging the folly of the fact that he himself had fallen into the most extraordinary of ordinary human traps. It was another of Jim’s tiny gestures that were laden with a hundred meanings and stories that Sherlock would save to reflect upon at a later time. A later time when Jim wasn’t lying warm and exposed (emotionally at least – for now) next to him and all he could think about was how much he’d missed him and what that might mean. They were slowly but surely cutting through the ropes that we keeping them held in place in the state of physical and emotional isolation that they’d always known and Sherlock knew that his was his turn to be honest with Jim.

“But now I know where those ideas came from, I know the mind behind them all – or I’m getting to know it. I think we’re both exercising a fair amount of caution, not because I’m not sure about what I know, but because I’m so sure of it that I’m aware that it’s almost too big a thing for me to fully comprehend yet. I don’t know anything about myself in this world we’re creating. But I know that I want to fill that world with you.” Jim’s smile widened, his eyes seemingly becoming several shades lighter, the flecks of gold that Sherlock could see in them sometimes glittered in the early morning sun.

“More,” Jim whispered, the bashfulness that seemed to overwhelm him when Sherlock complimented him was almost enough to hide the animal desire that lurked just beneath the surface. Almost.

“I want to fill it with your brilliance, your ideas, your imagination, your laughter, your passions. I want to spend my days doing completely mundane things with you –watching TV, reading the paper, listening to you talk. But, fuck, it’s not mundane, because it’s YOU talking, and you’re the most astonishing thing that’s ever existed and I want to hear you talk about everything and anything all day long. You could be talking about your ridiculous mathematics theses at 4 o’clock in the morning and when you paused for breath all I would do is beg for you to keep going.” Jim laughed openly at that declaration, his booming laughter seeming to dance into every far corner of the room, brightening it.

He loved teaching Sherlock, loved talking to him and telling him things. Just as Jim loved to listen to him. Sherlock would watch him carefully, his eyes flicking between Jim’s eyes and his lips, and sometimes his hands if he was gesturing particularly enthusiastically about a certain topic. He listened because he wanted to, a courtesy Jim knew that Sherlock didn’t afford anyone else. Sometimes he didn’t care – he often didn’t care, in fact. Some of Jim’s passions lay in things outside of the small catalogue of Sherlock’s interests. But he would listen and comment and remember and Jim’s adoration for him would swell impossibly greater.

Sherlock absentmindedly reached out to stroke his fingers over the palm of Jim’s small hand that was lying between them. “I don’t know whether you’ve destroyed me or saved me, but I’ve a suspicion that it’s the latter. Although it sometimes feels like the first one because beliefs and actions that i’ve dedicated time to analysing the reason and logic of, are slowly being airbrushed out of my mind, being replaced by a blank canvas. That we can fill together. Whether you’re just sitting drinking tea, or filing paperwork or just looking at me it’s all so exciting and breath-taking and it makes me not want stay with what I know, it makes me want to let go of the solitude I’ve shrouded myself in. I don’t want to be alone. Do you understand?”

Jim didn’t have time to say that yes, of course he understood and that that was what he’d been trying to get Sherlock to notice about him all along, before Sherlock continued.

“Of course you do, you probably knew I was going to say it before I did. But you’ve showed me – you’ve showed me so many things, but I think this one thing that you’re trying to show me, if I’m understanding correctly and I know that I’ve been slow on the uptake, but this one thing that you’ve always wanted to show me is that I am ordinary.”

Jim opened his mouth to protest. “No, no, bear with me.” Sherlock said, feeling such fondness for the way Jim was always so ready to leap to his defence, even when it was Sherlock himself who was the critic. “I am ordinary in ways I always thought beneath me or never thought of at all or thought only suitable for people who’re… for people who don’t see the world as we do. Even John’s tried to show me and I ignored him because he’s not enough for me to truly take notice of. But you are. You see me with such clarity. I’ve become too far removed from reality, which is perplexing, as truth and reality are the only things I’ve ever actively pursued and desired. But I suppose that, somewhere along the way, I forgot that there are things that do – which must – interfere. The most unavoidable condition of humanity. It and all its depth and implications exist within every thought and action. How important it is to feel. How little time there is. That’s what you showed me, Jim. You’ve given me that, a new depth of understanding. And I’m immensely grateful for it.”

Sherlock finally paused for breath. Jim was beaming at him, his eyes slightly red, but full of light. “I’m astonishing?” he asked, wriggling closer to Sherlock.

“Completely.”

“And breath taking?” He slid a leg between Sherlock’s.

“Torturously so.” He curled an arm around Jim’s back and closed the gap between them.

Jim hummed with soft, shy laughter and slid his hand under Sherlock’s t-shirt to rest on his bare hip.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“I like hearing you talk. About me.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Well, I’ll be sure to try and do it more often then. Though you disappearing for weeks on end, without so much as an indication of which continent you’re in won’t be particularly conducive to that. Russia, was it?”

“Very good,” Crooned Jim in a low growl, now sliding his bare foot up the leg of Sherlock’s pyjamas. “Coat pockets? And don’t worry, I told you, it’s the last big thing I’ll have to do for a while. It was just tying up a few final loose ends and planting few new seeds. The things that come in between take a lot of time to nurture. So I’ll be here for a while… boring you with all my talk of mathematics and space and philosophy and getting under your feet, and under a few other things…” He teased, his fingers scratching lightly at the skin over Sherlock’s hipbone and slipping under his waistband, sending a cascade of goose bumps tumbling down Sherlock’s back. 

“That’s certainly a wonderful piece of information.” Sherlock whispered, leaning down towards Jim’s face.

Jim leant forwards but suddenly pulled back before their lips met.

“What? What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, I just… I, um, I’d quite like to shower… first. If you don’t mind. And brush my teeth. It was a long journey, you know…” Jim’s syncopated words tumbled out in such an unsure manner that Sherlock couldn’t help but press a long kiss to his cheek, though his eyes clenched shut hard in frustration. He’d spilled the raw contents of his mind and it had all been met with a brilliant smile. He wanted Jim to kiss him again, to slide his fingers further below his waistband, to feel their legs twine together like vines and their lips to be locked in a deep embrace. He counted to five in his head, willing himself not to refuse Jim’s request and to just pin him down and kiss him, unshowered, unshaved and smelling like his sheets.

“No, yes, of course, whatever you want.” Control often slipped through his fingers but Jim was his exception. As he was Jim’s.

Jim smiled, pressed a kiss to his jaw, extricated his legs from where they lay tangled with Sherlock’s, and slid to the edge of the bed. He stretched, pushing his arms up high, clenching his hands into fists and then stretching his fingers wide, flexing his shoulders and bending his neck slowly from side to side. Sherlock watched the display with nothing short of carnal interest, noting which muscles flexed with which movement under the thin confines of Jim’s top. Jim glanced back over his shoulder and caught him watching. ‘Enjoying the display?” He baited, his grin lopsided, his eyes dark and mischievous.

“Yes.” Sherlock said. He’d divulged enough this morning that he might as well continue being entirely open about the thoughts running through his head. Especially after his positively adolescent actions in the bathroom last night – he was sure that Jim had heard him, sucking hissed breath through his teeth and failing not to let it escape in quiet moans. He had thought of Jim, just as he’d been instructed. As if he would ever think of anyone else. He’d thought of his throat, and the vivid red marks that he enjoyed painting upon it with his teeth and lips. He’d thought of his back and the way the muscles would ripple and shudder in delight as Sherlock traced the constellations of freckles that decorated his white skin with his fingertips. He’d thought of all of him, perfect and pale, as he stood in the shower in his flat, leaving the bathroom door open so that Sherlock could enjoy the view.

Jim was smiling slyly at him, as if he could see Sherlock’s thoughts projected in a slideshow upon his forehead. “Well, it’s a good thing that I’m planning to stay for a couple of days then, you can… appreciate… my presence to your heart’s content. Maybe i’ll even get to join in next time.” Jim said, as he prowled across the bedroom floor towards the door.

“Staying? Here?” Sherlock said, genuinely surprised. “And you could have come and joined in, I was rather disappointed that you didn’t, you were after all the star of the show.”

Jim raised his eyebrows, smirking. “You could have stayed in the bed. I was lying right next to you. No need for mere imagination. I’ve told you Sherlock, you can do whatever you want with me.”

“I thought that you were asleep! Even I know that that’s a limit.” Sherlock said, his voice rose as the frustration that was bubbling hotly under the surface threatened to rise up.

“Don't be ridiculous, you could’ve woken me up. As you’ll soon find out, Sherlock, there’s no better way to be awoken.” Jim’s voice was full of impure promises that caused Sherlock’s imagination to leap into action, flicking through the wealth of fantasies that he’d begun to collect.

They stayed locked in stalemate for a moment, their eyes burning into each other, their faces smug. Jim decided to keep Sherlock hanging a little longer.

“So anyway, about me staying here, you don’t mind do you? I don’t feel like going back to the flat just yet, or anywhere else. So I thought I’d come and stay here. For however long I survive before your wallpaper starts giving me migraines. May I borrow a towel? I didn’t pack one.” He waited for Sherlock’s slightly stunned nod and murmur of ‘Make yourself at home’ before he pulled the bedroom door open and disappeared from sight with a bright ‘thanks!’ Sherlock heard him pull a few things from his bag in the living room and listened to his footsteps get fainter as he made his way to the bathroom.

Sherlock sighed, rolling back onto his stomach, trying to keep his thoughts away from Jim in the shower, and concentrated more firmly on the thought that they weren’t in Jim’s ‘pretend’ flat, where he kept a handful of clothes, a few records, some books and a teapot. They were in Sherlock’s home. Jim had come to Sherlock’s home to seek comfort and company. It seemed an altogether astounding personal development in a relationship that really ought not to be able to exist at all. And perhaps it wouldn’t be able to for very much longer. Sherlock knew that it would become more and more difficult to protect the secret, insular world that they had created for themselves. But for now at least, John wasn’t here, Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t bother them, and Jim was entirely at his discretion.


	2. The Harsh Light of Day

“It’s kind of blue… a deep blue.” Jim was gazing down at the dark swathes of the silky material of Sherlock’s dressing gown that were wrapped around his body.

“What?” Sherlock questioned distractedly, immersed deep in a wealth of curled brown newspapers that he’d been allowed to take from the British Library Archives that morning.

“It’s blue. Do you not like blue? It turns red in a moment, like fire. You like fire. You’re like fire. Cold fire.” Jim mused, looking over at Sherlock from where he was sprawled on his back on the sofa.

“Shh, I’m busy.” Sherlock muttered monotonously, barely able to hear Jim’s lilting voice over the sound of the record Jim had put on. He usually preferred silence when he was reading, but Jim had insisted.

“Oh, busy, busy, busy. Too busy for me, Sherlock?” Came the soft voice again.

“Not usually, but I have been trying to get hold of these papers for weeks and now you’re sitting in the corner jabbering on about colours.”

“Well that proves that you are too busy for me. You weren’t listening. I wasn’t talking about colours. I was talking about the music.” Jim said, his voice sounded dreamy. It was unsettling. He now had one arm stretched out towards the ceiling and was watching his hand as he twisted it slowly from side to side, watching the shadows dance between his fingers.

“The music? Yes, it’s very nice,” Sherlock responded mechanically, in the hope of appeasing Jim; he was trying to concentrate on the article that was spread out across his lap. He closed his eyes, pressed the tips of his fingers together and concentrated on wiping away the surrounding world from his thoughts. Gradually, his mind became blank and calm, the swell of the music in the background only proving to be a minimal distraction. Sherlock looked back down at the paper and began to absorb the tiny print on the spreadsheet.

“Since his disappearance from London 38 years ago after the murder of the family nanny, Lord Lucan…”

“I think…” Jim started in a thoughtful tone, his quiet voice instantly shattering Sherlock’s delicate mental web. Sherlock looked up and glared at the man lying sprawled on the sofa. Jim took no notice; he continued to voice his thoughts, seemingly talking to himself now. “I think that it’s something to do… with imagination. I think that’s why people in general appreciate or understand music more. Or at least they pretend to understand it; i’ve never encountered anybody who truly does, apart from you perhaps. Well you could if you tried.” Jim’s thoughtful voice was now laced with scorn; years of anger bubbled beneath the surface.

“You can imagine the colours within the music and tailor it to your own mind; it can be as boring and dull as a person is or as vivid and alive as another.” Upon those last few words he glanced, seemingly unconsciously, at Sherlock.

“Art has visual colours. Very few people can understand visual colour.” He still spoke quietly, gazing at his hand, pausing between his sentences as if trying to condense the millions of ideas snapping through his mind into as few words as possible. “Everyone can see the world around them, but nobody understands what they’re looking at. Nobody. What… a… waste.” He spat the last syllable out almost violently, clenching his hand into a fist and letting it drop heavily onto his chest. He heaved a long sigh and turned his head back towards Sherlock, who was still sitting in his chair, but was now watching Jim with mild interest, the newspapers lay forgotten, scattered around his bare feet.

Jim had been fairly quiet all day. Sherlock couldn’t yet tell whether it was a quiet signifying tranquility or frenzy. He couldn’t remember Jim coming to bed last night and from the look of Jim’s eyes, he’d probably only been dozing for an hour or so before Sherlock awoke and Jim rose with him. A nervous energy had plagued Jim all evening, making his legs jitter and his head throb from the tension in his jaw, making him bark orders at Sherlock not to breathe so loudly or to go and think about his experiments somewhere else. He’d paced through the flat, occasionally making faces or noises in reaction to the voices in his head. Sherlock hadn’t interrupted him. He knew how infuriating it was to be interrupted.

“Yes. Quite. Well, that’s not new information to either of us.” Sherlock said, contempt for the general population about whom Jim was speaking laced his rich voice.

“No,” Jim conceded softly, appearing to have sunk quickly back into his reverie, the anger that had threatened to appear was gone. “But that doesn’t make it any less… disappointing.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement.

After a few minutes, the music on the record came to an end and the needle continued to scratch loudly. Sherlock drummed his fingers against the leather arm of the chair before realising that Jim wasn’t going to move to stop the turntable. He craved a moment of silence. He dropped the newspaper to the ground and hauled himself out of the chair to switch the player off. Jim didn’t move or show any recognition of the silence that had fallen upon the room. If it weren’t for his open eyes that were burning a hole in the ceiling, Sherlock would have presumed that he was asleep. Sherlock sighed.

“Tea?” He said, striding towards the kitchen.

“Yes, please.” Jim said quietly. “Unless it’s the Lapsang Suchong again.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Smells like… burnt socks.” Came the vague response.

Sherlock snorted and pulled a tea caddy out of the cupboard. “Fine, fine, can’t have Lord Moriarty assaulting his delicate palate with sock-scented tea.” He clattered about the kitchen loudly, flicking the kettle on.

He glanced back into the living room to see Jim still lying on his back, a slight frown on his face and one arm fumbling under the sofa cushions.

“I’m having toast. Want a piece?” Sherlock called,

“Yes please,” Jim said again, sounding distracted now. He made no more noise and Sherlock busied himself with his messy breakfast preparations. Jim’s mind was probably flitting through colours and numbers and words quicker than he could process.

Sherlock jammed some bread into the toaster and thought about the thousands of possible ideas that could be tearing through Jim’s mind. Sherlock never pressed him for detailed explanations of what exactly it was that he was thinking, or what it was that he heard in his head that sometimes made his delicate face contort into a grimace of searing pain. Sherlock arrogantly presumed that he knew, for the most part, the things that Jim’s mind tended to linger upon. Those same few words spun around and around between them; brilliant, madness, darkness, boredom, alone. Jim was more volatile, that was certain, and whilst they both shared those things, Sherlock knew with a macabre certainty, that they would in all likeliness lead them down very different paths. He hoped with a fervent desperation that he had been unaware he was capable of, that he would be enough of an anchor to keep Jim afloat for a little while longer. After so many years, their partnership had only really just begun. For now he hoped that he was enough.

Sherlock brewed the tea, using the teapot so that he wouldn’t have to go back to the kitchen to make another cup (Jim usually had a second), gathered everything he needed on a tray and put the 4 slices of slightly burnt toast on a large plate for them to share. Jim liked sharing food off Sherlock’s plate, it was intimate and comfortable, and it would be a good excuse for Sherlock to go and sit beside him, having not been able to be close to him since early yesterday afternoon before Jim’s mood had struck.

Throughout the course of the past day, Sherlock had been most surprised to find that he had missed the proximity of another person’s warmth. Well, Jim’s warmth. Nobody else’s body could bring him the peace that Jim’s did. He had missed the press of Jim’s bony shoulder against his arm as they sat side by side, Jim always pushing closer against him than was necessary. He had missed flicking his eyes to the side from whatever he was reading and watching the pulse beat under the pale skin of Jim’s neck as he thought. Sherlock had almost missed a time when he knew nothing of craving such sights and sensations.

Preoccupied with thoughts of Jim, Sherlock walked back into the living room and placed the food down on the coffee table that stood in front of the sofa. He looked up at Jim. He was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, the material of Sherlock’s blue dressing gown pooled around his small frame, his hair messy and eyes wide. Jim was holding a black pistol to his head. Sherlock’s stomach turned to ice; his heart stopped. The second Sherlock’s eyes met his, Jim’s finger pulled the trigger.

Silence.

Jim sighed and threw the lighter down onto the floor. “Typical. The world is against me, yet again.” He said, melodramatically.

The violent wave of fear that had swelled in Sherlock’s chest for a split second before he realised what Jim was holding dissipated, sending shock waves rippling over his body. His hand shook slightly as he moved the teacups onto the table.

“For fuck’s sake, Jim. If you’re going to shoot yourself at least do it in your own flat. It would have been a terrible mess for John to clear up.” Sherlock chided, layering his voice with heavy sarcasm to disguise the sound of the fear that was still pulling at every atom of his being.

Jim snickered. “Just testing your reflexes. Is that Marmite on the toast?”

“You’re a deplorable little shit. And yes, it’s Marmite.” Sherlock replied, his heart pounding, trying to keep his voice balanced and light. He poured tea through the strainer into the cups and added milk. He handed Jim the plate of toast, who put it on his lap and picked up a piece. Sherlock stepped over the table and dropped down next to Jim with a thump. Jim turned and pressed a light kiss to his temple

“Don’t.” Sherlock whispered, although his voice still managed to sound almost threatening. “Just don’t.”

Jim pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “I was just playing, darling.” he sang lightly. He turned back, reaching forward to pick his tea up. He settled back against Sherlock, offering his half eaten piece of toast, which Sherlock took. They sat in a loaded silence. Sherlock waited patiently for the next bullet to be fired. Jim sipped his tea and occasionally turned his head to take a bite from the toast that Sherlock was eating.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” Jim said, finally.

The familiar grey sensation of gloom drifted down and settled upon both of them like a blanket of snow.

“Ah.” Said Sherlock. “So that’s what the problem is.”

“It’s one of them.” Jim agreed, nodding into his teacup. Sherlock surveyed him suspiciously, absorbing every detail of his posture, the thin line of his pursed lips, his tired, downcast eyes.

“John’s on his way back, then?” That would be the most likely cause of Jim’s impending departure.

“Mmhmm. Mycroft texted me this morning. And I really do have to get back to work.”

“Mycroft!? I get the feeling that you’re more closely acquainted with my brother than I am.” Sherlock said irritably.

Mycroft was bland, pedantic and pompous. He meddled endlessly with Sherlock’s life, his bossy and cold presence loomed with infuriating frequency around every corner. Why would Jim care? Aside from Mycroft’s pulling power within the British Government and God knows how many other governments, Sherlock couldn’t fathom a reason why Jim would continue to uphold a relationship with Mycroft now that he had finally stepped into the light and Sherlock was aware of who he was.

Jim nodded slightly. "I am, in a sense. I understand your brother better than you do. You forget that I’ve known him for a long time. As long as I’ve known you, almost.” He murmured thoughtfully. He started drawing patterns in the crumbs left on the plate in his lap.

“What a privilege,” Sherlock sneered in a sarcastic undertone.

Jim nodded, his eyes wide with mock sincerity. “Oh, indeed.” Jim grinned up at him and wiped a crumb from the corner of Sherlock’s mouth with his thumb. “Although I wasn’t nearly as excited to discover his existence as I was when I discovered yours.”

“Naturally. Mycroft’s an insufferable bore.”

“So are you sometimes.”

“Hasn’t deterred you so far,” Sherlock retorted, taking a gulp of tea through his mouthful of toast.

Jim smiled softly.

“How long would you say you’ve know me for then?” Sherlock asked, hoping that asking further questions about the pivotal moment in Jim’s life when he discovered that he wasn’t alone would allow that gentle smile to linger upon his pink lips for a few moments longer. Jim had the ability to look almost angelic when smiling, and Sherlock hadn’t yet decided whether he found it amusing or very unsettling. Whichever it was, the sight of Jim’s lips curling upwards and the skin around the corners of his eyes creasing when he smiled made Sherlock’s heart thud and stomach churn in a way that was so intoxicatingly addictive that he thought that he’d probably willing to go to any lengths necessary to see it.

“Your table manners are disgusting.” Jim said, glancing at the man next to him, his face morphing into an expression of exaggerated distaste. He sipped his tea delicately before taking a tiny bite of toast. He chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, made to take another bite, but hesitated before replacing the toast back upon the plate, which he moved to slide back onto the table.

Jim brushed crumbs out of his lap and dusted his hands off, before twisting his fingers together, rubbing and pulling at the slender, pale joints.

Jim spoke quietly. “Since I was 13. I have known you since I was 13, Sherlock.”

“13.” Sherlock considered this for a moment and what it meant. If it meant anything at all, that is. He thought of the fact that he had existed inside Jim’s imagination, conscious and unconscious, for so long. He thought of how oblivious he had been to that fact, and how the very thought of his own ignorance made his stomach swirl with fiery anger.

“How did you know? How did you know that I was… you?” He finished somewhat lamely, unable to find an appropriate way to describe what exactly it was that Jim had discovered all those years ago. He wondered if it had been the other way around, which it so very easily could have been, whether he would have known what Jim was merely by catching a glimpse of him.

“You were unlike anything I’d ever seen. I just knew.” Jim shrugged, his tone was closed and he didn’t appear to want to elaborate. He pressed back against Sherlock, enjoying the warmth of his body.

“Love at first sight?” Sherlock drawled mockingly. He felt something he assumed to be regret twisting inside him almost instantly. ‘What a ridiculous word to use’ he berated himself. It meant too many things and it still wasn’t enough; it was a profanity, a word from a contrived script, a last resort of the desperate. It would never be able to encompass the depth of the connection between himself and Jim.

Jim didn’t move. “You were unlike anything I’d ever seen.” He repeated, in a voice so quiet it was almost drowned out by faint hum of traffic on the busy road outside.

Sherlock’s heart drummed loudly against his ribcage, Jim’s words were so simple but held a depth and history within then that was overwhelming. Sherlock turned his head and pressed his face into Jim’s hair, reminding himself for the hundredth time since the man’s return that Jim was real, that Jim was here; that Jim felt the pull between them with more force than Sherlock could genuinely wrap his mind around, and that he had felt that pull since he was a child. Sherlock considered the idea that had he noticed Jim, had he known him during their formative years and reciprocated his interest, whether Jim would still have become the dark omen who now sat beside him.

Sherlock sighed, the scent of Jim’s hair pressed against his mouth and nose overtaking his senses entirely and distracting him from his previous thoughts; he smelt warm and sleepy, like Sherlock’s sheets, closed windows and soap.

They sat in silence for a while, Sherlock counting the vibrations of his heartbeat as each one pressed against the weight of Jim’s shoulder blade.

“So why’s it bothering you? That you’re leaving? We see each other all the time. And you text me every five minutes anyway.”

Jim turned his head and stared at up Sherlock for a few moments, his face blank. He blinked incredulously and began picking at a loose thread of cotton on the knee of his pajama bottoms.

“What?” Sherlock prompted, nonplussed.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Except for the fact that you’re an idiot and I don’t know why I’ve wasted so much time on you.” Jim said, scraping his nails over the material, setting Sherlock’s teeth on edge.

“Oh what now?” Sherlock sighed dramatically, slinking his hand underneath the dressing gown to curl his fingers around the man’s slender waist. Conversations with Jim had the tendency to stray into this territory - the expanse of the no-man’s-land of unspoken words trembled between them in anticipation. Sherlock dealt with it by refusing to participate in Jim’s teasing mind games, and in response to Sherlock’s lack of emotional outpourings the previous morning’s outburst notwithstanding), Jim would become distant and biting.

Sherlock felt a deep sense of annoyance at Jim’s comment and the insinuation that he was boring Jim with his repetitive misunderstandings. If Jim made things clear; if he danced in the light instead of lurking in the shadows, hiding his face behind a veil (which Sherlock thought he did due to his desire to make Sherlock work hard for parts of his mind and heart that nobody had ever been allowed to see before), then things would be much easier for Sherlock to react to, to grasp onto and examine and explore.

“You’re ignoring factual evidence that is staring you in the face. It’s unforgivable.” Jim said in a dull voice, wriggling slightly as Sherlock’s fingers tickled him. The leather of the sofa squeaked underneath his movements.

“If you didn’t speak in riddles then both our lives would be made much simpler.” Sherlock said, trying to coax a smile out of Jim by leaning in closer to his neck and scraping his teeth lightly against his earlobe.

Jim gave a dispirited sigh and turned his head to kiss him, although the feeling that was normally behind such actions was lacking. “If you weren’t such a cocky bastard and made more of an effort to understand others then both our lives would be made much simpler,” he said in a sneering tone, but pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s lips. This time it held whispers of affection.

Often, Sherlock had found, Jim just needed to get a few snide comments out of his system before the deep warmth that lay underneath could be accessed. It never bothered Sherlock; in fact he rather enjoyed their pseudo-bickering. Jim let Sherlock push him further than anybody else did, and even the cruelest things he said would generally only be met with a retort that was even nastier and a dry smirk. Sherlock’s favourite part of these pretend arguments was that they more than often ended in wet, heated kisses up against the nearest wall, with Sherlock pressing hard against Jim and Jim tugging desperately on his hair. Sherlock was inclined to think that Jim started the fights for that very reason.

All their physical contact was still clumsy and unpracticed; their hands clawed at each other uncomfortably and the bones of their noses and chins crashed together with a lack of grace that was very surprising for two people who normally moved with such precise intention and elegance. It was a testament to the bubbling desperation to state that particular irrepressible part of their human nature that neither of them felt embarrassment when it came to their awkward but intense attempts at physical intimacy.

Sherlock pondered all of this absent-mindedly, staring at the gun-shaped lighter lying on the carpet.

He thought about the delicious warmth that had surrounded him as slowly woke from his sleep that morning as he had lain in drowsy silence next to Jim’s body, curled tightly underneath the duvet. Would it be that warmth that Jim would miss when he left? He was inclined to feel the cold after all.

Jim was biting at his nails; the clicking of his teeth seemed to echo all around them and Sherlock was tempted to swat the man’s hands away from his mouth in irritation.

Sherlock made to lift his hand to pull Jim’s fingers away from his mouth, but Jim, so hyper aware of Sherlock at any given time, stopped the second he saw Sherlock’s hand twitch out of the corner of his eye, and stared back down at his lap. Suddenly, he jumped.

“Oh! I almost forgot! I bought you a present!” Jim said, pulling away from Sherlock and bounding from sofa with alarming energy into the bedroom.

“A present?” Sherlock said, slightly confused. He perched on the edge of his seat, wondering whether he was supposed to follow Jim into the bedroom. He could only imagine the interesting presents that doing that might entail.

“From Russia.” Jim called from Sherlock’s room, where he was rifling through his bag.

“You bought me back… holiday souvenirs? From your top secret business trip?”

“Of sorts.”

“Goodness. How domestic.”

“You underestimate my attachment to you, Sherlock,” came the wry voice from the other room.

“Oh I don’t think that’s possible,” Sherlock muttered, running his fingers over a faint scar on his wrist; a silvery memento of the gas explosion that Jim had rigged to go off in Baker Street.

Jim came back into the living room, carrying a heavy looking black box. 

“I’m afraid that I didn’t have any more room in my bag for all the other things I wanted to buy you. I went to see the most beautiful ruined castle out near Murom – it’s all hideously extravagant French architecture and turrets and overgrown, desolate gardens and lakes. I thought that you’d have liked it. I could imagine you prowling about the grounds in your ridiculous coat. But maybe next time. This just a very small token.”

“A castle…?” Sherlock said, slightly nonplussed.

“We could have restored it. Well. Paid somebody else to restore it. Just think of all the space! Space for me to work and you could have your own laboratories and mortuary and whatever else you wanted for all your experiments. Room for us to both be alone whilst being together. And there’s lots of work you could do in Moscow. The police are snowed under as it is even without the workload I set out for them whilst I was there.” Jim spoke with a slightly manic enthusiasm that sometimes accompanied the dark moods that he had.

Sherlock decided not to point out what a ridiculous idea it was. Partly because it was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever heard and the realisation of how he felt about it shocked him to the core.

Jim walked over to Sherlock, handed him the box, and then clambered back onto the creaking sofa, squeezing in behind him so that he was pressed tight between Sherlock’s back and the cushions. Jim wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and rested his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder, his stubble-coated cheek pressed against the side of Sherlock’s jaw

Sherlock opened the box. “What on earth…?”

“Isn’t it revoltingly decadent?”

“Appallingly so. Are those diamonds encrusted on the…?”

“Yup.”

“Isn’t this the one that’s bullet proof, too?”

“Yes. Though why you’d waste bullets on a bottle of vodka is beyond me. They’re wasted enough on people as it is without spraying them at beverages.” Jim said, sliding his hands up under Sherlock’s t-shirt and starting to trace patterns absentmindedly on the taut planes of his stomach. Jim’s hands seems restless today, they were clutching for something.

Sherlock’s pulse was beginning to pick up at Jim’s attentions, but he ignored it and continued to study the gift. He wasn’t sure where Jim was going with this and it made him nervous. He knew that money was no object for Jim; a couple of million was a tiny drop in a very vast ocean. But Jim also knew that he wasn’t inclined to care about such material extravagances. Jim was dropping a blatant hint and Sherlock felt exasperation rising. The soft fingertips continued to dance upon his bare skin, sending tingles ricocheting up his spine. Perhaps it was best to encourage Jim’s attentions for the time being, to save them from further dispute. Sherlock didn’t want to waste their last few hours in the flat with both of them sulking.

“Well. If you’re going to spend $1.3 million dollars on some vodka for me then the least I can do is offer you a glass, I suppose.”

He felt Jim shrug. “You can do what you like with it. You can drink it, you could sell it. Use the money to buy your own flat…”

“I have a flat.”

“But it’s not your flat. Just think; you wouldn’t have to share with John any longer. You could buy your own. One that doesn’t scream ‘student hovel.’ And you could fire guns at the wall and make all the noise you want.” Jim whispered the suggestions close to Sherlock’s ear, his hot breath tickling his neck.

“I don’t mind sharing with John,” Sherlock said distantly, examining the large glass case that held the gold bottle. It was true, Sherlock didn’t mind sharing the flat with John. The conversation was fairly asinine and limited, and their understanding of each other even more so, but Sherlock genuinely liked John and didn’t mind tolerating his presence within his personal space.

Jim was silent for a few moments.

“No. Of course. Fine. Let’s have a drink then.” Jim said. He pulled his hands out from under Sherlock’s shirt and pressed a quick kiss to his shoulder. The warm press of Jim’s body against Sherlock’s back suddenly disappeared as Jim stood up and stepped down from the sofa, flouncing over to Sherlock’s armchair, his footsteps surprisingly loud against the carpeted floor for somebody so light.

“What? Where are you going?” Sherlock asked, genuinely disconcerted at the sudden change in the situation; he suddenly felt cold. Jim’s moods and energy were powerful enough to be capable of changing the very atmosphere of a room within the blink of an eye.

Jim threw himself down heavily and picked up his laptop from the ground. He flipped it open and the familiar glow of the white screen highlighted his features. The machinery whirred as Jim started up his programme.

“Mmm?” Jim grunted, his fingers poised upon the keyboard as his eyes moved rapidly over the screen before he found his place. He chewed upon his bottom lip for a moment and then began typing.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You’re doing it again. What’s the tantrum about this time?” he said in utter exasperation.

“I just remembered that I have things to do.” Jim replied in clipped tones, his eyes fixed on the screen.

“You’re being petulant.”

“I’m not, I’m programming. I do have work to do, Sherlock, and I’m already three days behind on this because I came here to see you.”

“Yes, and I appreciate it –“ Sherlock stopped when he felt Jim’s eyes glaring at him. Jim clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes back to his laptop. “Appreciate,” he repeated under his breath scornfully, starting to type.

“Yes, appreciate. I was very happy to come home and find you here, you know that.”

“Yes, Sherlock, I know, you were happy to find me here, you kissed me, you rubbed your hard-on against me, you told me that I’m brilliant, I know, I know…” Jim muttered monotonously, sounding completely bored of the whole subject. He tapped a few keys and squinted at the screen, frowning.

“Then what…?” Sherlock replayed the last few lines of conversation before Jim had moved. “I see no issue with me living with John. Is that why you’re sulking? Where would you prefer me to live? Back on the street?” Sherlock asked, looking slightly perplexed.

“GOD you’re dense! And after everything I…” Jim hissed before abruptly falling silent, deleting what looked like a large paragraph of symbols and equations on the screen. He chewed his lower lip for a moment, refusing to look at Sherlock. “Look, just leave me to work on this for a while, would you? You always get in the way when I’m working. And get me a fucking vodka.”

“Get it yourself.” Sherlock retorted childishly with a shrug, rolling over to face the back of the sofa, pressing his forehead against the cool leather. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind.

* * *

Jim paused; his fingers poised over the keys and closed his eyes in concentration to get his temper under control. Jim’s anger normally presented itself in ways much more frightening than the usual routes people took of shouting and kicking things. He would become icy cold, detached, distant and terrifyingly reckless. The rational part of his mind that spent an enormous amount of effort trying to keep control of his thoughts would fade into background noise.

Sherlock was a trigger for most of the extreme sides of any strong emotions that Jim had experienced over the last 20 or so years. He was ingrained in every thought and feeling that Jim had. Sherlock still had a limited understanding of the delicate and fragile nature of emotions, particularly emotions felt in regard to other people.

Jim thought about how angry Sherlock made him; how, for someone so brilliant, he could be so childish and pigheaded. But all of Jim’s anger for Sherlock was eclipsed utterly and completely by a more powerful emotion. An emotion that Jim had been utterly disgusted by at times during his earlier years, as he saw it stamped into the muddy ground beneath the feet of soulless human beings, as he saw it flung back carelessly into people’s earnest faces, as it crept under his own skin and curled itself around his ribcage like black vines, imprisoning him entirely.

Sometimes Jim hated the fact that he was in love with Sherlock.

At times like this, when the emotion was poised on the brink of becoming something that was entirely dark, jealous and obsessive. Heat pumped violently beneath his breastbone, sent white hot sparks flying from the tips of his fingers and fire burnt in his eyes.

Sherlock consumed Jim’s life entirely. He played sweet words that Sherlock had whispered to him in rare times of tenderness and intimacy on a loop in his head. He treasured ever relic he gathered from their time together. When Sherlock left and Jim was left alone, he would trace his fingertips over the parts of his body that Sherlock had touched, wondering how such innocent caresses seemed to paint permanent traces upon his skin that he could feel burning for hours afterwards.

At his house – his real house, where Sherlock had never been and where he himself rarely went these days – he had a small collection of things from his past. Nearly every one of them was in some way tied to the man lying a few feet away from him. Regular fits of rage and despondency saw Jim periodically destroy most things that held some kind of memory or sentimental value to him. But a few things had managed to survive.

A large battered trunk in his bedroom contained a few photographs, all of the manuscripts of his own writings and a few items of clothing that had belonged to people he had loved. A worn cardboard box contained Sherlock’s university exam papers, the files of every single case Sherlock had ever worked on, pictures of Sherlock cut from newspapers, and a scarf, scraps of scribbled-upon paper and several used latex gloves that had all belonged to Sherlock that Jim had stolen from St. Barts when he was working in I.T.

He thought about his bedroom, back at that house. The bed pushed into the corner of the room like his bed was at his London flat, so that he could curl up and feel invisible and as far away from everything as possible. Jim thought about the possibility of inviting Sherlock to share that bed with him and he ached.

Jim screwed his eyes tightly closed, and his hands clenched into fists. The rational part of him knew that Sherlock shared the flat with John due to it being a purely pragmatic arrangement for the both of them. It wasn’t as if Jim was worried about anybody, particularly John, pulling Sherlock away from him; the very concept of Sherlock ever finding anybody else with whom he shared the intense connection that he shared with Jim was enough to make Jim want to laugh. No, he wasn’t worried about that. But John still occupied a place in Sherlock mind and life and heart. A small place, but it was enough to send both searing jealousy and bitter confusion coursing through Jim’s veins.

That was the greatest difference between himself and Sherlock. Sherlock had friends. Sherlock might jeer at that word scornfully, but Jim knew that Sherlock had achieved something that he never had done, something that he would never be able to. Sherlock could connect with people and form bonds; tentative and unbalanced as they were, Sherlock had developed links with people for reasons more profound than it being a mere convenience. Sherlock had allowed himself to be loved by people, unconsciously and sometimes unwillingly perhaps, but he nevertheless had chosen to exist in a world that contained other people. In a world that contained John.

Jim unclenched his fists and drew a few deep breaths. He thought back to the trunk in his bedroom, to the cardboard box. He wondered what Sherlock would say if he showed him that box.

That dark, battered box of adored relics.

He wondered if Sherlock would sneer and mock and throw it to one side.

He wondered if it would demonstrate his love more than words might be able to. Jim wondered whether, if he scratched Sherlock’s name into his skin over and over again until it bled from him, seeped from his very being, then Sherlock would know. Sherlock would know that he was beneath Jim’s skin in every possibly way, that the shadows of everything he had ever done or said stirred behind Jim’s eyelids when he dreamt. 

He wondered if Sherlock would sit with him quietly, warm and close, looking at Jim’s entire world nestled in that little box, not needing to say anything but letting Jim know that he understood and that he accepted him. Jim’s throat throbbed and his eyes stung. He wondered how he could thank Sherlock for accepting him, for welcoming him into his life, for wrapping his arms around him.

The white screen blazed in front of his eyes, the symbols and letters upon it swimming and blurring in front of him. He blinked a couple of times and glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock was lying upon the sofa with his back to him. Jim wanted so desperately to go and lie down next to him, pressing his chest to Sherlock’s back again, entwining their fingers and breathing in the scent of his skin.

Jim realised that he couldn’t possibly show Sherlock that box. Not yet. He would wait, as he always had, for Sherlock to come to him. For Sherlock to ask, for Sherlock to notice, for Sherlock to take. Because Jim knew that he would always give. He was powerless in Sherlock’s hands, he would give him anything – his heart ripped straight from his chest, beating and alive. Anything.

He looked back at his computer screen. Everything seemed empty and senseless, his eyelids were heavy and his neck ached. He twisted his head from side to side a few times, and stretched his arms up over his head. He looked over at Sherlock, motionless upon the sofa and yawned obnoxiously loudly. Sherlock still did not stir. Jim huffed an exasperated sigh and slammed his computer shut again.

“You’ve fucked everything up. I can’t concentrate. I can only think about…” He cut himself off. “I’m going back to bed. I didn’t sleep at all last night.” With that, Jim stood and flounced back into Sherlock’s bedroom, throwing himself face down onto the bed with a dull thump.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this has taken me so long to update. There will be another chapter too and hopefully that won't take me months and months to do! Thank you very much for reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably have at least one more chapter. I'm working on it and will upload it probably in the next week or so.
> 
> I'd love to receive prompts; so if you have any ideas or questions, come and drop them in my askbox over on Tumblr :)
> 
> itisnotmytree.tumblr.com


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